


Craftier Than Stoss

by craple



Category: Inglourious Basterds (2009)
Genre: Hands, M/M, Minor Violence, what else do you expect?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-03
Updated: 2013-04-03
Packaged: 2017-12-07 09:00:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/746703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/craple/pseuds/craple
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wicki’s hands are a fucking masterpiece of the otherworldly kind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Craftier Than Stoss

**Author's Note:**

> title is ridiculous. and i was referring to veit stoss, a german sculptor.

Wicki’s hands are a fucking masterpiece of the otherworldly kind.

They are not in better condition than others, not much worse either compared to Hugo’s; but they are crafty with knives, daggers and machetes and whatnot, and it is always a sight to watch Wicki slit a man’s throat with such elegance, it makes Hugo _want_ in return.

Better than Donny’s baseball show, which has always been a favourite, he thinks. Not the only one to miss the show, Hugo notices Utivich practically drops everything clattering to the ground as Wicki slashes yet another man’s throat open, barely paying attention to the now-lifeless body in his hands – Raine’s satisfied expression tells everything he needs to know.

Donny crouches down and tilts the man’s head aside. Blood pours out of the wound in earnest, and Hugo is too busy paying attention to the almost obscene way Wicki is cleaning his knife to care. Wicki’s long fingers are wrapped around the hilt, his thumb caressing the old carving of their tongue-language like a promise.

If watching Donny beating the shit out of every Nazi soldier they find is the closest they get to a cinema, then watching Wilhelm Wicki killing everyone who stands on his way with a single knife of which he later cleans in public, morbid fascination in his eyes, is like a daily porn Hugo is starting to get used to.

“Damn, Wicki,” Donny wolf-whistles. “Your aim has always been so – _straight_ , man. They’re so beautiful I cannot actually believe.” Utivich nods in agreement whilst Omar continues to _watch_ Wicki alongside him.

Hugo cannot blame the guy. Wicki doesn’t even look up to recognise them, or anything, but he does grunt something in affirmation of sorts – then _looks_ at Hugo with one raised eyebrow. He cocks his head toward the door, hand stretched out patiently.

“Cig,” Wicki says. “ _Zigarette_.” He waves his empty pack in front of Hugo’s face, smiling amusedly. Hugo rolls his eyes and gestures for the man to follow him out.

No matter what, a sacred place is still a sacred place, after all. Even half-German and vengeful, Wicki can understand at least that, and Hugo respects that from him, so he doesn’t pull his last pack of smoke out until they are hidden from Raine’s watching eyes.

Eagerly, Hugo hands a stick over to Wicki. He does not take his eyes off Wicki’s long fingers crooked around the butt, watches the movement of his fingers as they flick a lighter near the butt; focuses wholeheartedly as Wicki’s lips close around the cig.

_Then_ Hugo places the cig he’s holding to his mouth, lights it, and keeps watching Wicki’s fingers playing with the metallic lighter until the soldier snaps him out of the reverie and pulls him closer by the belt holding his uniform together.

“Hands,” Wicki informs him, seriously. “ _Hynde_.”  And Hugo cracks up laughing.

“ _Schweige_ ,” Hugo says, takes a hold of Wicki’s wrist as Wicki reaches for the cigarette between his lips, tugs and licks a long stripe from his knuckle to his forefinger, snatches the stick away from Wicki’s existence and _sucks_ the forefinger in his mouth.

Wicki’s eyes go dark and intense, and Hugo. _Can’t_ resist.

Who can, when it’s Wicki?

Raine gives them the stink eye when they come back, forty-five minutes later. Hugo ignores it in lieu of watching Wicki pulling his gloves back on.


End file.
